


New Snow

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort (sort of), M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, conflicted feelings, post-coup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 08:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12722838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: Brockdorff's and Gudovich's first winter after the coup.





	New Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MildredMost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MildredMost/gifts).



> Happy birthday, you dork :)

“Does it ever do anything except rain in this damn city,” Brockdorff mutters, shouldering open the door of his Kiel flat and grimacing at the lack of light and warmth in the front hall. “We need new staff.”

“We?” Andrei pipes up behind him, hurrying to shut the front door and shrug off his wet coat. 

“I. I need new staff.” Brockdorff corrects himself before shouting for his man to come and help with their clothes. He begins telling the fool off but then, noticing Andrei’s slight embarrassment, sends him off with a scowl and a warning. What he needs is _more_ staff. It’s a small flat but one maid and one valet are sometimes just not enough. But Brockdorff isn’t sure he can afford more staff. The family estate doesn’t turn that great of a profit, especially now that there’s no one but his mother left to manage it and Brockdorff is loath to take too much from her as well. 

He could supplement his income by getting a position in the civil service like he had before… It’s not a sentence he wants to finish. 

Unsurprisingly, Andrei is not particularly flustered. He has managed to wiggle out of his coat, boots, frock coat, and waistcoat. He smiles tentatively up at Brockdorff and says, “It’s not so bad. And maybe we’ll have snow soon.”

“That’s what you said about Christmas.” Brockdorff raises an eyebrow at him. “Any more clothes you’d like to take off in the hall?”

Andrei flushes, mutters something about Brockdorff having seen him in a greater state of undress before and disappears into his room. 

*~*

They had left Petersburg within three days of Peter’s funeral, both of them heartbroken and feeling like failures. It’s one thing to love someone and lose them. It’s quite another to love someone and feel responsible for his safety and wellbeing and then lose him in a way that makes you feel like _if only you had done something, if only you had done more…_ The guilt is almost as bad as the grief. 

Brockdorff would have never thought that he would want _anything_ to do with Andrei Gudovich if he didn’t absolutely have to. But when faced with the sudden emptiness in his life and the even more sudden realization that Andrei was the only one who could possibly understand how he feels, all the air had suddenly gone out of his pride and his dislike. 

They simply had nothing left to fight over. 

*~*

Fall in Kiel had been misty and rainy and the winter months have brought little relief from the mud and the wind. They keep waiting for snow and it never comes. The entire world is grey and bleak and part of Brockdorff wants to hint to Andrei that it’s time for him to leave. And Gudovich, having understood that he has overstayed his welcome, would likely, in fact, _leave_. It’s likely the only way Brockdorff will be able to begin forgetting. 

But every time he resolves to start such a conversation, Andrei does something ridiculous, like attempting to convince him to bring a stray puppy into the flat, or buys himself a tailcoat of the most ridiculous shade of light blue which brings out the color of his eyes, or comes home with a bag of Brockdorff’s favorite croissants. And Brockdorff can’t help thinking, _one more week couldn’t possibly hurt._

 

*~*

The day before the new year they go riding out to the docks. They’ve done this multiple times by now and the rout has become usual and familiar. At one point they tie up their horses and go by foot, stopping at the end of pier, and look out over the turbulent waters. The waters in the bay are always turbulent in the winter, egged on by one storm or another. The wind it cold and gusty – the skirts of their coats flap and both of them are in constant, imminent danger of losing their hats. Summer breezes from the bay sometimes have a tangy, salty smell to them. Now, Brockdorff muses grimly, the docks simply smell like fish and rot. 

“I hate it here,” Brockdorff mutters. He’s not sure why – because grey, northern waters remind him of Petersburg, or because Kiel itself is simply too full of memories, of _him._

Andrei finds his hand. “Your hands are cold,” he says. Before Brockdorff can protest, Andrei takes both his hands and breathes warmly over them – once, again. 

“People will see.”

“We’re not doing anything indecent.”

“Indecent, maybe not. Irregular, certainly.” Yet, he doesn’t move away or tell Andrei to stop. Brockdorff squints against the wind, trying to read the look on Andrei’s face. Everything around them is gray and black – the water, the sky, the docks, the cobblestone streets, the coats of passersby. The whole world is in mourning. Andrei is the only warm thing in sight and Brockdorff feels like his chest might cave in at any moment from the vice-like pressure around his stomach and ribcage that seems to have been there since July. “I feel like I’m drowning,” he says, barely audible. “All the time.” 

Andrei looks up at him, searching his face, apparently surprised and concerned all at once. The wind has ruffled his hair, blowing wispy blond strands into his face. Brockdorff reaches out and brushes a loose strand of Andrei’s hair out of his face and tucks it gently behind his ear. Andrei catches his hand before he can draw away, turns his head and presses his lips against Brockdorff’s wrist, finds his pulse-point, an almost-not-quite kiss. A shiver runs down Brockdorff’s back and he pulls away suddenly, leaving Andrei lost and embarrassed. 

Brockdorff returns to watching the clouds on the horizon. Beside him, he can feel Gudovich doing the same. “You’re right,” Andrei says quietly. “It doesn’t do anything but rain around here.” 

*~*

“Do you think it would be wrong of me? To care about him?”

“Gudovich?” Rumberg pours their glasses full to the brim from the pitcher of beer they’re sharing. 

“Mmm.” Brockdorff hides behind the glass, trying to concentrate on the bite of the alcohol and ignore how awful it is to be vulnerable like this. Even with Rumberg, who has never been anything but kind to anyone. 

“Of course it wouldn’t be wrong. Why--? Oh. Are you…the two of you…?”

“ _No._ ”

Rumberg sighs and an awkward silence falls between them. “It still wouldn’t be wrong,” Rumberg says finally. 

They’re tucked away into a corner of a local inn which is full of people anticipating to usher in the new year with a drink and a friend and maybe a willing woman. Brockdorff is just there to complain to one of the very few friends he has left. “It feels like a betrayal.”

Rumberg doesn’t need clarification on this, and that is his great advantage over anyone Brockdorff had known before going to Petersburg. “Peter would want you to be happy. He would want Andrei to be happy.”

“I don’t know if we make each other happy,” Brockdorff scoffs, wrapping himself up in cynicism as the last defense he’s got left. And anyway, they’re not _supposed_ to be happy. 

“He’s still here though isn’t he? Clearly the two of you take comfort in each other. That’s probably the best either of you can manage right now anyway.” Brockdorff doesn’t know what to say to that. “Where is Gudovich now?”

“I don’t know. Probably at home—at our—my flat.” Rumberg smiles and Brockdorff glares at him. “Don’t.”

Rumberg sits back and takes a long drink of beer. “If you love him, Christian, then love him. If you care about him, take care of him. That’s never _wrong._ ” 

*~*

It is getting close to midnight when Brockdorff finally gets home with a bottle of expensive champaign. He finds Andrei curled up on the sofa in front of the sitting room fire. He looks up drowsily at Brockdorff and says, with a small smile, “I thought you’d gone to celebrate elsewhere.”

Brockdorff doesn’t answer him and pours two glasses instead, handing one to Andrei. “It’s New Years Eve, let’s drink. Move over.” 

“We should probably get some food to go along with this,” Andrei offers, sitting up and letting Brockdorff steal half of his plaid blanket. 

“You gave the staff the night off, remember? And I’m too tired to try to make food.”

Andrei flushes and hides behind his glass. “Right.” After a moment of silence, he bites his lip and curls up into Brockdorff’s side, then goes very still, waiting for the rebuff. 

It never comes. Brockdorff settles back against the sofa’s cushions and puts the bottle between them. Andrei lets out a long breath and relaxes. The sitting room is warm from the fire, the Christmas wreathes which Andrei had insisted they put up are still there, smelling faintly of pine, their silver strings and bells glistening in the candlelight. 

Brockdorff is oddly hyperaware of Andrei’s head against his shoulder, the soft tickle of hair against his cheek, the way their arms and thighs are pressed together, the coolness of the bottle’s glass separating them. He closes his eyes and listens to the ticking of the clock. He’s not _happy._ Not even close. But he’s certainly far more comfortable with Andrei beside him than he would have been alone. 

“ _Faire schmolitz_?” Andrei proposes just before midnight and it takes Brockdorff a minute to realize he means _Das Brüderschafttrinken._ He obliges and they welcome in the new year drinking with their arms intertwined and looking into each other’s eyes. Right until the point when Andrei leans over, taps Brockdorff’s glass aside and kisses him, long and gentle and with a sweetness far too youthful for either of them. “It’s a Russian tradition to kiss after….” he explains blushing. 

“Fuck Russian traditions,” Brockdorff mutters, blindly sets his own glass aside and pulls Andrei into a long, desperate kiss. Andrei makes a surprised, mewling sound against his lips, them surrenders to the pressure and wraps his arms around Brockdorff’s shoulders, pulling them flush against each other. The not-quite-empty champaign bottle rolls to the floor but neither of them notices. 

Brockdorff runs a hand up Andrei’s chest, resting it on his neck, finding his Adam’s apple and then his pulse point. He rubs a thumb over the creases and hollows there, making Andrei squirm and press in closer. Andrei undoes Brockdorff’s cravat and tosses it aside, tangles a hand in his hair, the other one still resting at the back of neck, making the hairs at the nape prickle. Andrei is soft and malleable, he tastes of champaign and chocolate and a bit of expensive tobacco that he dabbles with sometimes. Brockdorff can feel his own body reacting, first with electric shivers and jerks, and then with a growing tightness in his britches. 

Somehow, Andrei makes it into his lap without breaking their chain of kisses and nips. Brockdorff is the first to pull away, but just for the second it takes him to bury his face in the side of Andrei’s neck, sucking the soft skin there, then making his way down to the tender hollow of his breastbone. Andrei gasps and shudders against him, tugging thoughtlessly at his hair. Brockdorff can feel that he’s breathless, his pulse racing. “Shit,” Andrei murmurs. “ _Shit,_ Brockdorff, I can’t.”

Brockdorff stops and looks up at him. Andrei is flushed, his pupil’s dilated. “I can tell your cock feels otherwise,” he says hoarsely, and Andrei bucks forward as though a jolt has gone through him. He bites his lip hard, leaving a red mark. A drop of blood wells up bright red against the pale skin and Brockdorff reaches up, sucking gently at Andrei’s lower lip, the tangy, coppery taste of blood against his tongue a strangely almost-pleasant sensation. 

“No, I mean, I mean…” Andrei tries again, once Brockdorff pulls away. “I won’t last long like this—agh!”

Brockdorff grins, tightening the hand he has just placed under the swelling bulge in Andrei’s breeches. 

“ _Fuck you._ ”

“I have a feeling the other way around will work better.” He pushes Andrei onto his back and makes quick work of the lacings of his breeches, the feeling of warm skin against his fingers pleasant and welcome. Andrei braces himself against the armrest of the sofa. Brockdorff can feel him watching, can feel the intense fascination in his gaze. _He certainly wasn’t expecting this._

They are both very drunk, but it’s probably best. Brockdorff realizes he doesn’t actually have _that_ much experience with…this particular ritual. Not that he would ever let that show. He chances a look up at Andrei and smirks at the flustered, helpless look on his face. His lip is still bleeding. Brockdorff reaches out and gently pushes back the strands of hair that have fallen into Andrei’s eyes, then kisses him again. A quick, soft kiss, then another, until Andrei half-laughs, half-sobs, throwing his head back. “You’re such a _bastard.”_

“Say please.” 

“Please—oh, God, _please.”_

 __Brockdorff takes another look at him before settling back down and slowly taking Andrei into his mouth. He can feel every tremor that goes through the boy’s body, every sharp inhale and soft exhale. Andrei’s hand wonders through his hair, sometimes tugging a little too hard, but Brockdorff is intent on what he’s is doing, meticulous as usual in his tasks. He finds every sweet spot that Andrei has, every sensitive clusters of nerves until, finally, Andrei cries out and comes all in a rush, and Brockdorff sees dark spots in front of his own eyes as well.

After, he wipes his mouth of his sleeve and sits up, watching Andrei’s face as he catches his breath and comes back to his senses. “Happy New Year,” Brockdorff says, his own composure mostly intact and his tone fairly smug. 

Andrei’s smile is still full of disbelief. “I can’t believe you just…” he breathes out in a rush. “Oh God…I lo—”

“Don’t say it,” Brockdorrff says sharply, a cold, sobering wave suddenly washing over him. _You don’t mean it._ “It’s just the afterglow talking.” _I don’t think I could say it back._

Andrei closes his eyes and waits out the first pangs of embarrassment. “I need some air.” He gets up and wonders over to the window as though in a daze, distractedly tucking himself back in. He throws open the window and takes in a deep breath of cold, winter air. Then freezes. “Christian,” he says softly. “Look.” 

Brockdorff gets up and comes over to stand behind Andrei, instinctively wrapping both arms around the boy’s waist. _Like you would do with Peter---Stop._ He looks out into the darkness outside and smells the salty air from the bay. Tiny, fluttery snowflakes glisten against the dark backdrop of the night sky, melting almost instantly when they hit the windowsill. 

“It’s snowing.”

“Close the bloody window, we’re not done,” Brockdorff says against his ear. Andrei obliges and turns in Brockdorff’s arms, looking up at him expectantly. 

Brockdorff’s grin is feral, predatory. “It’s my turn.”


End file.
